


Picking Battles

by LordOnisyr



Category: Death Note
Genre: Explicit Language, Fights, Friendship, Gaming, Gen, Italian Mafia, POV First Person, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordOnisyr/pseuds/LordOnisyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Matt's apartment, Mello just crashes here sometimes; meaning has no say over the mess or the annoying guests he has over. Though Mello isn't going to take it lightly when one of his valuable possessions gets trashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Battles

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially written for DN Contest over at LiveJournal back in 2009. This ended up winning the week's contest and I've always liked this fic. I figured I'd share here.

**Picking Battles**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata, and Viz Media. I don’t own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

* * *

 

Technically, it’s Matt’s apartment.

His name was on the lease and he paid the rent himself, even if most of that money came from my mob associates who pay him for errand jobs on my recommendation. This was his main hang-out; I just leave a lot of my stuff here and I just stay here most of the week when I want to get the hell away from business.

By definition this is Matt’s apartment. There is no question that he’s justified in inviting about 20 smelly geeks from the local game store and comic shop to have LAN parties that practically turn into keg parties by the end of the night. I’ve got no say when I walk into Matt’s apartment and see the whole place piled up with empty beer and soda cans and bags of crisps strewn around with a mess of cigarette butts and the spilled contents of God knows what seeped into the carpet.

This is, after all, Matt’s apartment. The first time I approached him about the goddamn mess, that’s all he told me while not even looking up from his Xbox to address my concerns about this pseudo-shared living space. Screaming about it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good apparently, so I just walked away but it wasn’t as if I was walking away happy.

The second time I walked in to see the shit strewn around the place, I had a very good idea what the answer would be even though I had a right to express my feelings anyway. By the third time I just rolled my eyes at it and went my merry way; yelling was useless. Matt would just do like he always does and sit on the bloody couch with whatever game console he wants to toy with at the moment and just brush me off. I’d deck him, but damn him for making sense every time he opens his mouth. I just can’t get past that; he is just this impenetrable wall of chill, it pisses me off.

When I saw the same mess after entering the apartment the other night, I just ignored it. I have to say I was pretty proud of myself for how I handled it. I am capable of being calm over something contrary to popular belief.

Then I got into the kitchen and all bets were off.

Before I continue further, bear in mind that I do leave a lot of my stuff here. Some of that stuff is rather sensitive in nature and would not want to leave it in some of my other hangouts known to at least a few other mob bosses. I could have a pile of other goons or even a pile of cops on my doorstep if someone wants dibs. Matt, however, is a neutral third party and few people are going to trust me to leave anything at the place of “the package boy.”

Stuff like weapons, jewels, wads of cash, blackmail material, you name it is kept in a locked area in the room in Matt’s apartment designated as my bedroom. Only I know the location of all the safes and I know all the combinations. Sometimes I might leave more neutral stuff there that is not under lock and key, like clothing or whatever, but the door itself is locked…most of the time.

Some things, however, are not that sensitive in nature but are still rather special. Some of these things I might leave in Matt’s apartment for temporary storage until I can put them in another of my hangouts.

Some things like the bottle of Casa di Rosalie Primo given to me by a rather old and well connected Sicilian crime boss as a goodwill gift. This bottle contains the premiere batch of wine from a rare cultivation of Northern Italian grapes at the Napa Valley vineyard of said boss’ 80-year-old mother.

It was in a deep blue bottle with a really nice purple and silver foil table. I recognized both immediately after glancing into an empty 24-pack box of Mountain Dew sitting on the kitchen floor. Part of that nice label was peeking out from a mound of greasy pizza crusts and an empty bag of Doritos. Then I saw the other half of the bottle beside it on the floor in a pizza box. I can only imagine what happened to the contents.

I just stood there are stared at it, leaning against the wall and just wanting to punch something. Oh believe me the urge was strong to just reach in the mess for the neck of the bottle and go up to the douchebag sitting on the couch playing Assassin’s Creed in the next room and smash it over his fucking head.

No, beating his head in would be counterproductive. I just took a few breaths, resisted the urge, and tried to come up with a better way to approach this.

Beating his head in wasn’t really an option, but I really should rub his nose in it a little; maybe seeing my concern for the situation would teach him a lesson but I wasn’t holding my breath.

I reached into the box, trying to ignoring the congealed grease and moist sponge of the crusts and grabbed the neck of the bottle. I lifted it out of the mess slowly making sure there were no pieces of leftover broken glass and avoiding the cracked bottom half.

As soon as I had the top half in my hand, I spun on my heel and walked out the kitchen. Matt was still sitting there in this eerie glow from the TV and this nasty plastic Hello Kitty lamp on the table next to the couch that I don’t even want to know where he picked up. He didn’t even look up from his game and let go of the controller for a moment to take the fag out of his mouth.

He kept playing but grimaced a little; I think he had an idea of why I was out here.

“You have a little gathering last night,” I asked, trying to save my voice for expressing my full feelings.

“Uh, yeah,” Matt said. “You know you should stick around some night, they’re cool guys to hang with.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “You cool guys didn’t happen to have this as part of your liquor supply last night, did you?”

I held up the bottle, the urge to smash it across his face rising. He looked up for a moment at the bottle before turning back to his game; a small look of recognition telling me everything.

“Yeah I think one of the girls brought it,” he said. “It was some really good shit. The empty bottle ended up falling off the counter, but we cleaned up all the glass.”

I managed a nod; it was all I could do to keep from getting really violent. He went right back to playing. A part of me wanted to wait until he was at a save point but the rest of me wanted him to suffer in any way possible.

I took a step to the console under the TV and flicked the switch off. The shrill “fuckin’ A” was music to my ears.

“This was my fucking bottle, you twat,” I said, leaning in and putting the label in his face. “It was in my fucking room on a fucking shelf! It wasn’t some box of shit you get at the store; it was a rare fucking vintage worth an ass load of money and you and your fellow fuck-ups obliterated it!”

Matt grimaced for a second in reaction; not good enough.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Sorry about that, man, that is seriously not cool. I tell all of them to stay the hell out of that room, but someone is getting a little talking to.”

“Yeah, give them a little talking to about fucking up my shit!” I said. “This wouldn’t have fucking happened if you didn’t bring random cocks off the street into this apartment.”

“Fucking Christ Mello, we’ve had this conversation,” Matt said, still in a calm tone that pissed me off even more. “But you know, maybe you’re right, or maybe you just forgot to lock your room. Now that wasn’t my fuck-up.”

“This whole thing was your fuck-up, you moron! You bring in who the fuck knows what into your space my shit gets fucked up! I’m surprised they haven’t robbed you blind already!”

“Well no they haven’t, save for one bottle of wine that looked good at the time. And I didn’t think you were into wine anyway, so what the fuck do you care in the end.”

He was right. I’m hardly an aficionado and that bottle would probably have been used for bragging rights or to toast said boss when the FBI finally put him away or his body washed up somewhere. Regardless, there was a principle here.

“I give a fuck because a whole room full of people gang banged my shit,” I said, putting the label in Matt’s face again. “And you didn’t notice the difference between some $3 grocery store shit and something that was suspiciously nicer.”

Matt looked up at me with a calm glare.

“Okay for one thing Mello, if you don’t get that broken bottle out of my face I will fuck you up, no playing around,” Matt said, pointing at the bottle. “For another thing, I couldn’t give a fuck about your poofta wine and the poofta friends who gave it to you. Your shit got fucked up, I’m sorry, I will find out who went in your room. But you were the one who left it unlocked, so calm the fuck down and take some responsibility.”

Matt knows that sometimes talking some sense into me calms me down, even if that sense includes where I’ve screwed up. Normally I’m receptive…this time I wasn’t.

My right hand laid the bottle on the coffee table as my left fist connected with the side of his face. He moved his head and grabbed my hand, just as my other fist slammed into his nose.

He kicked out, catching my legs as he flew up from the couch with his arms out. I dodged out from a body slam, only to have a pair of legs do a scissor hold on mine and yank inward. I allowed the move and let my weight slide to the floor; avoiding the coffee table and landing in front of the TV.

I arched my back and twisted upward, pulling my legs from his grip and grabbing his wrists. He head-butted me, which really fucking hurt but I kept the grip on his wrists. I rolled over to my side, my arms going around his waist. He arched upward and rolled over. I would have been pinned under him if I hadn’t come to my feet and jumped forward to slam him.

Matt’s hands met the carpet and supported his weight as be kicked backward. I crouched low, the tip of a boot slamming against the side of my face next to my eye. I was probably going to have a black eye out of that but all the more reason to make him hurt worse.

I grabbed his ankles, putting him off balance and he tumbled over like a tree. His head smacked against the coffee table with a loud slam of bone hitting wood and he crumpled to the floor.

I stood for a second, the adrenaline coursing through my veins but the desire for blood now sated. Matt’s eyes were closed, a small trickle of blood from his head wound now spotting the beige carpet.

Oh fuck, did I just kill him?

“Matt?” I asked, taking a step closer.

No, I didn’t hear any cracks. This bastard has had his head slammed in so many fights at Wammy’s House it made me think his skull was made of steel. Odds were likely this was a trap.

“Fuck me,” I said, walking a little closer to the coffee table. “Seriously, asshole, get up.”

I slowly reached for the bottle on the coffee table. Maybe the feeling of a sharp object against his throat would get his attention. The bottle was now in my hand, but I knew better than to lean down just yet lest he leap up. Then again maybe he really was unconscious.

I waited for another second, still no response. A few seconds later he wasn’t getting up.  
I took another step closer, just as a leg kicked up; the heel of a boot smashing into my junk.

The lower half of my body went numb; I let out a grunt as I fell back on the couch. The bottle flew from my hand and smashed somewhere on the floor, which only accentuated the stabbing, burning, aching, holy fucking shit pain I was in now. I felt the course fabric of the orange couch before another stab of pain went through my back. I screamed followed by a cacophony of obscenities in several different languages.

“Did you just land on my fucking game controller,” Matt said. Apparently he was okay now; fucker.

Another round of speaking in tongues followed when the pain in every part of my body finally subsided enough to give me conscious thought. I moved a little to the side, reaching for the source of pain underneath me.

I pulled out a plastic game controller. Two of the buttons had popped out and the face of the controller was dangling on by wires.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” Matt yelled, walking forward and grabbing the broken controller.

A second and a flying boot later he was on the floor clutching his nether regions with a scream. He writhed on the carpet for a second, looking up and seeing my sneer; albeit my sneer twisted with a lot of pain.

“Your own fault, you should have watched where you were kicking me,” I said.

“Fuck you,” Matt said, wincing a little more before the pain probably subsided for him.

I was satisfied now.

“I’ll be a nice guy and call this a draw,” I said.

“That works,” Matt said, gradually bringing himself to a sitting position.

We eventually iced down our respective wounds while trading some brags at our manly fighting prowess. I did get a black eye out of it and he had a bloody nose, but the wound in Matt’s head turned out to just be a little scrape that bled a bit. I think we made macaroni and cheese later and watched some bad porn.

I have no idea if he’s talked to his band of assholes about getting into my shit. I did offer to spot him $20 for a new controller. He took the money but I saw a controller covered in duct tape from that point on. Know when to pick your battles and all that. But in the end I was the one who had the last laugh.

A week after this little incident, the head of aforementioned mob boss knocked down a little kid’s sandcastle when it washed up on Redondo Beach. I lamented the loss of the wine to toast, but the best part followed.

His successor (and probably disposer) wanted to keep his brother’s old ties. A few days after this the family’s slimy lawyer approached me with an invitation to an exclusive opening at the Museum of Contemporary Art for a well known gothic artist who just happens to be one of my favorites.

It’s a high end affair for rich assholes in nice clothing. Oh and the invitation was for “Mello and guest.” Guess who the “guest” is going to be.

Revenge is sweet indeed.

 


End file.
